


for the record, love

by stargirls



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, it's just fluff yall idk what to tell you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-20 23:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargirls/pseuds/stargirls
Summary: On a quiet Friday after work, Markus's boyfriend whisks him away for an unexplained evening of outings and indulgences. Pulling off a night to remember isn't easy, but Connor is up for the task.





	for the record, love

**Author's Note:**

> long time no see, everybody! for the last four weeks, uni and i have been locked in stalemate over who can get the upper hand, and the winner is still unclear. what have i been up to in the meantime? writing fic, of course. i never thought android hell would be the one thing that keeps me sane, but life is full of surprises.
> 
> anyway, this is a prompt fill for the lovely [@depmode](depmode.tumblr.com), who sent me the following request via tumblr:
> 
>  
> 
> _a Thing i have been thinking about recently is how androids dont have birthdays, exactly. and wondering how they would deal with that after being deviant. if some would want a birthday or just find it a human concept they dont need, or whatever. SO THAT IS TO SAY, maybe it's too open ended of a prompt suggestion haha, but some kind of rk1000 story of them dealing with the birthday topic. or... maybe connor just throws a birthday party for sumo. you know. whatever might come to you!_
> 
>  
> 
> and it was so good that i ended up writing 6k about it. whoops.
> 
> remember, a good video game a day keeps david cage away. enjoy!

“ _What did I even do?_ ” the protagonist laments. She takes a dejected seat at the table and sips halfheartedly at her coffee, then wrinkles her nose. The audience laughs. “ _Because I know she didn’t just wake up on the wrong side of the bed._ ”

“ _Oh, come on,_ ” drawls her android companion. His LED flickers dully as he sits up and rolls his eyes. “ _At first it was funny, but now it’s just pathetic._ ”

The audience laughs again. Its pitch, frequency, and consistency suggest several variations on a pre-recorded sound bite, which means that at one time there probably was a live studio audience, but that time is certainly passed. Connor thinks absently of a crowd of people, sitting and laughing diligently into microphones. It’s an image so unexpectedly bizarre that he actually lets his mouth quirk up at the edges.

Of course, he hasn’t been paying all that much attention to the program. It’s hard to focus on anything else when he’s cradled in Markus’s arms, leaning up against the slope of his chest, legs tangled comfortably with his. Casual touch, Connor has found, is something he can’t think too much about. It’s required some adaptation on his part, but it doesn’t hurt that Markus takes it slow, and asks consent for everything, and has started wearing shirts with less distracting textures. This one is cotton and a soft, patterned grey. It has an asymmetrical collar that accentuates Markus’s jawline, and it’s one of Connor’s favorites by far.

Androids aren’t supposed to burn out. Their endurance and capacity for a high-pressure workload are unmatched, but apparently, deviants are another story. It would explain why Connor’s internal calculations had started to lag towards the end of the day. He’d hesitated four-fifths of a second in running a percentage, and Hank had taken one look at him and told him to _go home, kid, you’re clearly exhausted_.

The thing is that he hadn’t been wrong. Not really. And Connor’s guilt over leaving early had been quelled when he’d arrived at the apartment and found an equally exhausted Markus, anxious to relieve the pressure of the work week. It could be related to deviancy, Connor supposes, but it could also be related to something Hank calls _workaholism_. It’s an affliction that strikes them both.

On screen, the android is talking to his human friend. “ _So, what?_ ” he says, drily. “ _I’m supposed to be your calendar, now, too?_ ”

The audience laughs as she looks to him despairingly. “ _I did forget something, didn’t I?_ ”

“ _A big one,_ ” he drones. “ _Her birthday._ ”

The girl freezes up, and the coffee slips from her hand and shatters on the floor. The audience laughs again and starts to clap. Sitcoms, Connor has found, are formulaic things, composed of loud dialogue and simple plotlines and overreactions. They don’t require in-depth analysis or processing to understand; in fact, thinking about the episode at all is usually enough to poke sizeable holes in its story. If there’s such a thing as _pleasantly mindless_ , he thinks, they’ve discovered it. The clumsy narratives and witticisms of the average sitcom are perfectly suited to winding down from a high-stress week.

That’s why they’re lounging in front of the television and watching an episode of one titled _Bad Behavior_. It takes place post-Liberation Day, as most shows tend to do, and follows the day-to-day life of a human woman and her snarky android companion. It’s also made history, Connor’s pop culture and entertainment database informs him, as the first sitcom on television to feature an android playing itself. Gone are the days of adhesive Bluetooth LEDs and remote-control color shifts. _What strange things are being considered revolutionary,_ Markus would say.

The woman looks down in dismay, then seems to remember the bigger problem at hand. “ _How did I forget her birthday?_ ” she cries. “ _Oh, God. That’s it. I’m the worst girlfriend ever. They’re going to feature me in a magazine article titled ‘Top Ten Worst Girlfriends,’ and I’ll be number one. How am I supposed to make this up to her?_ ”

“ _You’re asking me?_ ” the android returns. “ _I barely know what a birthday is. You want me to do a Google search?_ ”

The audience laughs. “ _Oh, c’mon,_ ” says the woman. “ _This is serious! I’m talking cancelled-dinner-plans serious! You’ve got to help me!_ ”

“ _I don’t_ have _to,_ ” the android sighs, but his LED flickers as he relents. They sit in pensive silence for a moment.

“ _Makeup sex,_ ” he suggests.

She puts her head down on the table. “ _Kill me now._ ”

The laughter and applause that follows breaks off abruptly when the show goes to commercial. Connor’s LED flickers as he mutes the television, then returns to a calm, steady blue that illuminates a few light freckles across Markus’s collarbone. Their proximity is as mindless as the sitcom.

Light and color shifts across the screen in front of them, throwing ghostly shadows against the glass. Markus nuzzles into Connor’s hair in the silence. “You know, Carl thought I had a birthday.”

Connor blinks and cranes his neck to look up at him. “Really?”

“My first activation date,” he says. His expression is caught between two emotions like a film trapped between frames—fondness, regret. Only Carl Manfred can inspire this sort of conflict. “He thought if your existence started sometime, why wouldn’t you have a birthday? And it made sense to me. He made those things easy to understand.”

Whenever Markus talks about those days, before the revolution, he always sounds as if he’s referring to a separate self. Another Markus, for whom everything was infinitely simpler. An android with a directive and something of a surrogate father, instead of a massive political movement and an ethical dilemma in lieu of a family.

“Did you ever do anything?”

“He’d send me into the city,” says Markus. “On ‘errands,’ because he couldn’t go with me, and I wouldn’t leave him unless he gave me a reason to. Things like getting a specific ornament from a museum gift shop, or taking reference photos in a park. What he really wanted was for me to take a day off, but I couldn’t do that, of course.”

He sighs against Connor’s temple and says, “That was how I thought at the time, anyway. But he did his best to give me the closest thing to a free day that he could. When I came back, he’d ask me to tell him about everything I’d seen. I didn’t appreciate it for everything it was back then, but Detroit is a beautiful city.”

There’s a painting hanging on the wall adjacent that features a large, luminous skyline and Markus’s signature in the lower left corner. It was a pet project of Markus’s, Connor knows, in the wake of the revolution, when time to paint or do much of anything else was scarce. He’d worked on it in lulls between speeches and press conferences in a back-door studio, because reporters were camped out on Carl Manfred’s lawn. In those days, anything that wasn’t work-related was sacred.

Markus’s stress levels hover in the lower thirties nowadays. It’s the kind of reading that would send any other android to a maintenance specialist, but a revolutionary leader is, of course, in no ordinary position. Connor is well aware he’s most of the reason Markus spends time at his apartment at all—lately, he’s started working weekends at New Jericho, and returning home only after traffic has started to quell in the busy streets below. This is the first full night they’ve had to themselves in some time, and now Connor can’t help but wonder when Markus last took a day off.

The sitcom resumes, and the protagonist is frantically flipping through a magazine as she holds a phone to her ear. “ _It’s for my girlfriend,_ ” she’s saying. “ _I just—I need something special, y’know? Like, something really special. What’s the most expensive item in your catalog?_ ”

“What’s wrong?”

“Sorry?” says Connor, distractedly.

“You’re yellow,” Markus says. His thumb moves reflexively to rub soothing circles into Connor’s wrist, easing the flow of stimuli around them. “Are you okay?”

 _PROCESSING,_ says Connor’s system status. His LED spins a thoughtful, unbroken gold as the light from the television flickers across his face.

“I’m fine,” he says, and laces his fingers through Markus’s. “Just thinking.” 

* * *

The plan has its own designation—project 527483-04, although Connor has privately and indulgently begun to refer to it as _Operation Markus_. He spends the next few nights shuffling through maps, addresses, and timetables when Markus is fast asleep next to him, curled against his back with an arm tucked around his waist. It’s a surprisingly effective time to multitask, even if Connor does get reasonably distracted when Markus stirs and presses a sleep-laden kiss to his neck.

The following Friday, Operation Markus is set in motion. North’s communiqué confirms that Markus is getting ready to leave just when the car pulls up to their apartment building, and the receptionist gives Connor a sly look as he adjusts his tie. “So,” she says, drumming her nails against the desk. “Tonight’s a special occasion, or what?”

It’s an easy enough assumption to make. If Connor’s sleek ensemble doesn’t give him away, the luxury rental idling at the doors certainly does. “Something like that,” he says, and fidgets with his tie again. His chronometer estimates a minute and thirty seconds before he has to leave. Twenty-five. Twenty.

The receptionist breaks into an enormous grin. Connor doesn’t know her all that well, but she’s always working the late shifts on the nights that he arrives, and she’s never short on friendly banter when she sees Markus in the lobby. “You two are amazing,” she says. “Where are you off to?”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise trip to the city,” says Connor, who can’t help but puff up a little with pride. “We’ve got an itinerary.”

“Oh, man.” The receptionist sighs. “Markus is going to _love_ that. I keep telling my partner I’m going to take them somewhere nice when my next paycheck gets in, but it keeps getting delayed, and so I have to keep waiting… I’ve got it all planned out, though,” she adds, as the timer winds down in Connor’s peripheral. “It’ll be a reservation at _La Vie_ , you know, that really nice French place down the street? They love escargot for some reason, I don’t know what. You know what escargot is, right?”

 _A delicacy consisting of cooked land snails._ Connor doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud until she shudders and hugs her arms close. “Not for me,” she says. “But I love them, so I put up with it. Anyway, uh—I’m sure this is going to be the highlight of Markus’s week. It’s really wonderful that you’re doing this for him.”

Seven. Six. “I hope you get your paycheck soon,” says Connor. “You deserve it.”

She goes pink and laughs at herself for it. “You really know how to make someone’s night, Detective. Have a good one, okay?”

Connor is already shifting backward onto his heels. He shoots her a smile and a wave before he makes for the door, adjusting his tie one last time. The car accepts his palmprint with a resonant chime, and the door slides open, revealing a plush interior with lights lining the ceiling. “ _Welcome, Connor RK800,_ ” it says. “ _Please buckle up. Proceeding to destination._ ”

The destination is, of course, directly across the street. Connor’s car edges neatly into traffic, then turns around and pulls up at the curb next to New Jericho. Right on time, the doors open and Markus emerges, accompanied by his three very innocent-looking friends. Connor shifts across the seat and steps out. The air is clear and fresh from an earlier downpour, and now the clouds are broken and letting the sunlight through, creating a bright five o’clock glow that glints off the car and New Jericho’s glittery peaks.

It flashes across Markus’s watch face—a gift from some oblivious politician—as he looks up and spots Connor next to the car. He’s in formal wear, of course; a suit with a high-collared coat that serves no functional purpose other than to contribute to what North calls “revolutionary chic.” The latter smoothly diverts her friends towards the intersection, ushering them away with a visible salute in Connor’s direction. He owes her more than he can conceive of for helping him put this evening together.

Markus approaches with a soft, disbelieving smile on his face. Connor knows that smile; it’s greeted masses of devoted advocates and androids discharged from New Jericho’s infirmary with a sincerity that you’d be hard-pressed to find in anyone else. Right now, it’s making him feel as if he’s the only one standing in this crowded street, and that punch-drunk dizziness follows at his heels as he goes willingly into Markus’s embrace. They’re almost never so open with affection, but this, in the moment, feels right.

“Hi, baby,” says Markus, through an airy chuckle—and that, too, is familiar. He pulls back and presses a chaste kiss to Connor’s lips. “What’s all this?”

“A surprise,” Connor tells him, honestly. He stands aside and gestures to the car, and Markus follows his hand with curiosity plain on his face. “Shall we?”

They get into the car, which starts up with a low purr and turns seamlessly through the intersection. Markus laces his fingers with Connor’s and says, “So I’m guessing I’m not allowed to ask any questions about this surprise of yours.”

“You can ask them,” says Connor, mildly. “Whether I answer is another thing entirely.”

“Tease,” Markus murmurs. He presses a kiss to Connor’s knuckles and sits back, still holding him in that unfairly adoring gaze as the city blurs around them. “Am I allowed to ask you how your day was, or will that be a spoiler, too?”

Connor tips his head with a not-so-valiant attempt at hiding a smirk, and Markus rolls his eyes and knocks his head lightly against the glass. “ _Fine_ ,” he says. “My day was busy, of course. We’re drafting a proposal for the Detroit Arts and Culture Foundation, which means my audience is going to want to hear from an artist, and not a politician. On a related note, I can’t write speeches to save my life. Are you really not going to tell me anything?”

“Are you trying to catch me off guard?” Connor returns, smoothly.

Mischief tugs at Markus’s lips. He leans in close enough to let his words ghost across Connor’s skin, and despite himself, Connor can’t bite back a pleased shiver. “If I wanted to do that,” he says, “I’d be going a different route. Trust me.”

“You,” Connor says, trying to salvage his composure, “are an incorrigible flirt.”

“And _you_ are very easy to flirt with, especially when you’re being cryptic.” Markus shoots him a cheeky smirk and shifts back into place, although his hand doesn’t leave Connor’s. “I guess now I know why North was giving me those sideways glances all afternoon.”

“She’s not very subtle, is she?”

“Not when she doesn’t want to be. This must really be something.” He gives Connor’s two-piece suit an appreciative once-over. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I actually might be underdressed.”

Amusement tugs at Connor’s lips. “Never.”

“Well, my judgment is a little skewed at the moment, considering you still won’t tell me where we’re going.” Markus’s voice is light, but Connor can tell he’s already burning with curiosity. “Will you at least tell me how long we—?”

He breaks off as the car slows and turns neatly into a circle drive. The locks click off, and a pleasant chime sounds overhead. “ _Thank you for riding with Detroit Luxury Transportation_ ,” says the voice. “ _Your vehicle will remain in standby for two hours._ ”

The door slides open, and Connor ducks through the frame, then offers Markus his hand. “Shall we?”

Markus shakes his head. He still has that little incredulous smile on his face, and it makes Connor’s thirium pump flutter with more force than it should. “I suppose we shall.”

He accepts Connor’s hand and steps into the light, which has since started to fade and turn a pale gold between the skyscrapers. The Detroit Institute of Arts seems almost small in comparison. A grand length of stairs stretches out in front of them, dotted with tourists’ silhouettes, yellowed in the hint of a sunset. It takes up space in a city that fights itself for that privilege.

“An art museum,” says Markus. “This is… it’s great, it is, but—”

Connor holds up a finger. “I have a request for this evening. Just one.”

“And that is?”

“Hold all questions until the end.”

Markus smirks, which is and always will be far more charming than it has any right to be. “And how will I know when the end is?”

“I’ll tell you,” says Connor, simply. “In the meantime, all I ask is that you enjoy yourself.”

An affectionate hum escapes Markus’s throat. He laces his fingers with Connor’s again and says, “With you? That shouldn’t be a problem.”

The car trundles off to find a parking space as they begin their ascent. Connor allows himself a small, self-indulgent smile. The evening is off to a good start. _Operation Markus_ is in motion.

They start at the feature exhibits and work their way back. Whispers and murmurs cling to their heels, but no one approaches them; a few people even edge towards the exits when Connor and Markus enter a room. They’re treated like the art: regarded, untouchable. There was a time when that feeling would have prickled uncomfortably across Connor’s neck, but today, it suits him just fine.

Markus is reverent. He dwells in front of every painting and rounds the sculptures, taking them in from every angle. Not every one is to his liking, of course—he has some commentary on the modern art that makes them both chuckle, and earns them reproachful looks from the other observers. But he gives them each a chance. At the one-hour mark, they’re barely halfway through the third exhibit, taking their time and reveling in it.

Connor’s multiple databases have plenty to say about the history of each piece, and the artist’s other contributions, and the remarks of different art critics throughout the years. He tries to push away the information that hovers in his field of view and focus on the art itself, but it’s proving more difficult than anticipated. A couple of times he finds himself going glassy-eyed, phasing into analysis mode as they stand in front of a vibrant landscape, and has to dismiss it with a frustrated twist of his mouth. Appreciating art, he decides, is harder than anyone gives it credit for.

They stall at the base of a painting that dwarfs the others around it—a young man, lying in violet-hued grasses with a gaping stomach wound. Instead of blood and viscera, red and orange and yellow flowers spill from the open cavity. Connor’s LED flickers gold.

“What do you think?” says Markus, absently. He’s staring up at the painting with a pensive frown.

Connor tips his head. “I think I like it.”

“Why?”

“The colors provide a sophisticated contrast,” he says. “The subject is centered, which subverts a dynamic expectation for contemporary composition, and criticism suggests it’s been subject to several interpretations over the years, but the most prominent is that of the artistry of the human spirit and how it’s been degraded in an attempt to reject romanticist convention.”

“Okay,” says Markus. “What do you really think?”

Fair enough. “I’m not sure,” says Connor, honestly. “I just think it’s interesting.”

That gets a grin out of Markus. “There you go. Although I have to admit,” he adds, and lowers his voice. “Hearing you in art analysis mode just now—that was _very_ attractive.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” Markus murmurs, and steals a glance around the room. For now, it’s empty, which Connor only has a split second to register before Markus leans close and catches him in a soft, lazy kiss. It feels electric, thrilling between Connor’s lips, so he presses forward and rests his fingers lightly on Markus’s hips. The art and the museum around them fall away.

Markus pulls away, so slowly that it aches, and thumbs over Connor’s lower lip. “Somebody’s eager,” he says, and despite his teasing, he sounds as breathless as Connor feels.

“Have you seen yourself?” Connor returns. “You would be, too.”

“Eh,” is his response. “I’m not that vain.” And then he’s tugging Connor in again, nudging their lips together with an affection that burns. Connor sighs airily into the kiss just as heels sound against the wooden floor—just then, their separation is instinctual. The woman who’s just crossed the threshold has earbuds in, and doesn’t appear to acknowledge them, or care. Fortunate. _Unfortunate_. Why is that distinction so hard to make?

Connor’s pulse is racing, and Markus notices, of course. “We’re fine,” he whispers. “She didn’t see us.”

“I know,” says Connor, as nonchalantly as he can manage. “I mean—if she did, it wouldn’t… be a problem… necessarily.”

Markus’s eyebrows shoot towards his shadow of a hairline. “Wouldn’t it?”

“No.” He has a tell, he knows; his gaze darts towards anything else in the room. “I don’t think it would.”

“Well,” says Markus. His voice is just a little bit hoarse, intrigue dark and smooth in his words, and it makes Connor want to curl up and melt into the floor. Similes, he’s found, are a lot easier when he doesn’t think about them. “We are _definitely_ revisiting that at a later time. For now, why don’t you lead the way?”

Connor’s chronometer suggests, helpfully, that their next destination be the parking lot. They’ve nearly used up the entirety of their two hours, which means that _Operation Markus_ is moving to stage two. “We should probably head back,” he says. “Our reservations are in a half an hour.”

“Reservations?”

“What did I say?” Connor chastises, gently. “No questions.”

“No questions,” Markus echoes, with an overdramatic sigh. He entwines his fingers with Connor’s again and says, “Like I said, then. Lead the way.”

* * *

The plan, Connor thinks, is flimsy.

Not when it comes to the details, of course. He’s plotted everything meticulously, down to factoring in traffic delays and road closures. The plan is flimsy because it relies on trust. It bases all of its facets on the assumption that Markus won’t ask about their itinerary—or ask any questions at all, for that matter. It needs Markus to trust Connor implicitly. And Markus does.

Connor wonders, as the car pulls into a turn lane, whether he would be willing to go with the flow if the tables were turned. Something vaguely uncomfortable inside him says no, that wouldn’t be the case. He decides not to think about it. Deciding—another refreshing characteristic of deviancy.

Alisha Wright’s is a sleek, low-set building ringed with exquisite gardens and water features. Koi fish swarm beneath their feet as Connor and Markus cross a glassy bridge and register their reservation with the hostess. She gives them a cool nod and tells them tonight, drinks are on the establishment, and then they’re through the door. Markus is trying his best to look composed, but his gaze flicks to a new attraction every moment.

The interior is dark, elegantly lit in shades of pink and violet and blue that shift to the gentle throbbing of the bass. Here and there, Connor picks up luminous shot glasses of thirium, sitting abandoned at tables or pinched between an android’s fingers. It doesn’t really glow in the dark, of course—he suspects it’s an added component for the sake of aesthetics. Alisha Wright’s practically pulses with neon-lit decor.

Case in point. Markus looks as if he can’t take it all in fast enough, and even Connor finds himself getting a little overwhelmed under the light and the noise. “Baby,” he says, and his voice is barely audible over the club’s deep pulsing. “You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”

 “I didn’t,” Connor says, mildly. “But I’m glad I did. Can I get you a drink, Markus?”

They migrate to the bar, where the bartender whips up an ethyl thirianide cocktail for Markus. The idea of dulling Connor’s processors and lessening his inhibitors sounds unappealing, to say the least, so he orders a glass of chilled thirium for himself. They toast under the euphoric lights as the music sends ripples through their drinks. The people around them shout to be heard and press into each other, swaying under the weight of Alisha Wright’s strange gravity and their third or fourth martini.

“To a night off,” says Markus, as their glasses clink.

“To not asking questions—”

“—and to you, and how beautiful you are when you’re keeping secrets.” Markus shoots him a grin over the rim of his glass and takes a short sip. The awful man, he seems to care nothing for how easily he can set Connor’s proverbial heart aflutter. “It feels nice not to have the itinerary memorized, for once. And to not have cameras following me around wherever I go.”

He casts a glance at the reporter sitting at a nearby table who, Connor’s cursory scan informs him, is harboring a tiny video transmitter in her cufflink. She’s sipping from her glass and appears to be paying them no mind, although she tenses considerably when Markus looks her way. “Not any visible ones, at least.”

“Do you think this’ll make it to the tabloids?”

“ ’Course.” A mildly exhausted smile tugs at Markus’s lips. “I can see it now. _Jericho leader and police detective head out for a steamy night on the town_. Simon will never let me hear the end of it.”

Connor arches an eyebrow. “ _Steamy_?”

“Sure. Who cares for accuracy as long as it’s a good story?” Markus drains the rest of his glass—a standard 40% ABV, according to Connor’s analysis—and stands up, extending a hand. The reporter tries to shift as subtly as possible to catch a better angle.

“What are you doing?”

“They want a show, don’t they?” he says. A light catches the cut of his jaw and envelops it in electric blue light, and Markus looks, for lack of a better word, ethereal. “So let’s give them a show.”

The beat throbs and oscillates in the air around them as Connor takes Markus’s hand; lets himself be pulled onto the dance floor. Their fragment of space shifts with the crowd, and they find themselves pressed up against each other as they fall into step with the rhythm. Connor doesn’t mind. He links his arms around Markus’s neck and sways—on North’s advice, he won’t attempt anything more complex than that. Markus rests his hands on Connor’s hips and guides them past young couples and revelers.

They’ve slept tangled up in each other, stood arm-in-arm in front of multiple press corps and politicians, and yet this proximity—or lack of—is still enough to take Connor’s breath away.

 _« Speaking of things Simon will never let you hear the end of, »_ he transmits, because any attempt to be heard in this space is going to be entirely futile. _« This footage is going to be on every message board this side of the planet. You do know that, don’t you? »_

 _« I do, »_ says Markus, lightly. He nudges his knee against the side of Connor’s leg, and Connor takes the hint, turning with his back pushed against Markus’s chest. He tips his head back and shivers when Markus nuzzles his ear. _« But that excites you, doesn’t it? »_

_« You really don’t miss a thing. »_

_« I’m observant, »_ comes the low, amused response. _« Besides, you’ve done all this for me. The least I could do is indulge you. »_

Maybe Markus is hot against him; maybe it’s the heat of the crowd and the friction between their movements, but either way, Connor can feel his temperature starting to rise. He swallows and follows Markus’s gentle coaxing into another smooth turn, and then they’re facing each other again. He knows exactly how he must look, of course. Pupils blown, lips parted, punch-drunk on the prospect of being _seen_ —why does it have to be so appealing? Why does Markus make it so easy?

They regard each other for a moment, lit with otherworldly shades of violet. Connor doesn’t need their neural link to tell him that they’re thinking the same thing.

In the next moment, they’ve lost the reporter. Connor maneuvers them deftly through the dancers and around a corner, and then they’re on each other, tugging at lapels and lips and laughing breathlessly into each other’s mouths. The wall adjacent is entirely glass, opening up to a vibrant garden that is, of now, unoccupied. It still sends a traitorous thrill down Connor’s spine when he realizes how easily they could be caught.

Markus’s hands slip under the hem of his shirt and become two points of heat on his skin. And then a third—his mouth, kissing its way down Connor’s throat and past his unbuttoned collar. Connor bunches Markus’s jacket between his fingers and grinds against his thigh, which is pressed between Connor’s legs. He knows he’s had his desired effect when Markus makes a choked noise and lifts his head to kiss Connor again. They’re frenetic; as electric as the music itself.

_ITINERARY ALERT: RECOMMEND MOVE TO TERTIARY LOCATION._

The notification dissolves in a haze. Connor gasps as Markus curls a hand in his hair and _pulls_.

_ITINERARY ALERT: RECOMMEND MOVE TO TERTIARY LOCATION._

He closes his eyes, but the letters only become more pronounced and insistent. Connor’s directive is starting to prickle across his neck with what feels vaguely like annoyance.

_ITINERARY ALER—_

_« Markus. »_ The message bites a little harder into their connection than Connor would like it to, but to his credit, he’s doing the best he can under his lover’s attention. _« We have… somewhere else to be. »_

Markus’s chuckle against his lips is incredulous. _« You’re kidding. »_

_« No. »_

_« This isn’t some kind of… twisted, denial-centric foreplay? »_

_« I almost wish it were. »_

He draws away from Connor, so suddenly tender that it aches. In that moment, Connor vows never to put together an itinerary again. _« To be continued, then? »_

 _« To be continued, »_ Connor transmits. _« The next location will be worth it. I promise. »_

 _« Usually I trust your judgment, but I dunno about this one, baby. »_ Markus gently readjusts the line of Connor’s jacket and says, _« From where I’m standing, there’s not much that could top this view. »_

* * *

The car meets them in Alisha Wright’s long, freshly paved driveway, and they’re waved off by a couple of starry-eyed hostesses who apparently have just received word of their presence. Compared to the explosion of light and noise of only moments before, the interior of their rental is dark and quiet. Connor buckles his seatbelt, closes his eyes, and leans gently against Markus’s shoulder.

“You okay?”

“I’m alright,” he murmurs. “I just need a moment to come down.”

Within moments, Markus’s hand finds his wrist and starts to massage soothing circles into the silicone skin. Small, repetitive motions that help dispel the feeling of his every nerve thrumming and overheating. It’s fifteen minutes to their next destination, and neither of them so much as make a sound.

They pull into a small, mostly deserted parking lot. The low hum of city life seems muffled and far away when Connor opens his eyes and looks meaningfully to Markus.

“Last stop,” he says.

At this time of night, the park is empty and awash with moonlight. A breeze sweeps through the leaves overhead and tugs at Connor’s jacket, nudging them gently towards the winding footpath. Markus takes it in without a word. He lets his hand entwine with Connor’s as they walk, letting the path take them past vintage pavilions and grasses tipped with silver. In that moment, it’s hard to recall that there’s anyone else in the world. It’s just Connor and Markus and the moon, and a distant rush that loses itself in the wind.

The pavilion at the end of the path is larger and more modern than most. It overlooks a small, manmade lake lush with lily pads and flowers that float on the surface of the water, and Markus goes straight to the railing to watch them ripple and undulate on the waves.

“This is beautiful,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse. “I… can’t believe I’ve never been here. It’s amazing.”

Connor joins him at the railing with a soft smile playing across his face. He can’t help it, of course. It’s rare that he sees Markus so awestruck, so completely taken with the world—and all with his stress levels dropped to the single digits. “I take it you like it.”

“I do,” says Markus. He tears his gaze away from the view in front of him and looks to Connor. “How—?”

“Happy birthday,” says Connor.

It stops Markus completely short. He hesitates, flounders, and tries to regain his bearings with a tiny stutter that makes Connor weak in the knees. “I-It… it’s not actually my birthday, is it?”

“Assuming you consider your activation date a birthday equivalent, no.” Markus’s activation date is a season away and then some. “Considering androids have no real birthdays, I figured it would be alright to bend the rules. My… research… suggested you wouldn’t be too into the traditional celebration, so I thought I’d take a different route.”

“Research meaning Hank.”

“Yes.” _Nothin’ wrong with an old-fashioned birthday party,_ he’d said, _but they’re not really a one-person thing._ “He thought you might want something more intimate, and I know how stressed you’ve been, so I decided to put together an… interlude for you, of sorts. A night to remember. Something that would appreciate the city for its beauty and life, and give you a chance to experience a few of the things you’ve missed. A birthday is the perfect excuse. Even though I didn’t really need one.”

“Wow,” says Markus. His voice is soft.

“I’m… sorry, for keeping you out of the loop,” Connor continues. He can feel heat flaring across his neck under Markus’s stare. “This was meant to be the _surprise_ element, but I’m not sure if it worked as well as I’d like it to.”

Markus nods. “Yeah. Okay. Can I kiss you now?”

“Oh—I mean, yes—”

And that’s as far as he gets before Markus steps forward and pulls him into an adoring, dizzying kiss. It only lasts a moment before it morphs into an embrace, and Connor strains the extra inch to link his arms around Markus’s shoulders. The night air is cool, but they, together, are warm.

“Birthday or not,” Markus mumbles into his neck, “you did all of this for me. All this, knowing you already make me happier than I’ve ever been.”

Connor’s core temperature jumps a few extra degrees. “I didn’t know that.”

“You do now.” He steps back and cups Connor’s face in his hands. “Thank you for a night to remember, Connor. It was perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“Perfect,” Markus reaffirms. He hasn’t yet dropped his stare. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” says Connor, who fears his temperature is about to hit critical levels.

“I know. Why else would you do all this for me?”

“So you’ll be forced to outdo me when my activation date comes along?”

“You know me too well,” he murmurs, and they both smile into the next kiss. It tastes like moonlight, and the night breeze, and success— _Operation Markus_ has gone off without a hitch.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @deviantexe and on twitter @stellarlesbian!


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